Girl With a Past (16 page)

“That doesn’t make him creepy.” I’d heard
this ugly theory of Carol’s before without reacting. Not this time.
“This ugly thing of yours, I mean, easy for someone as gorgeous as
you to be critical of ugly. But some people can’t help it. They
were born that way.”

“Bullshit. Ever seen an ugly baby? They’re
all cute, even if it’s in a cute, ugly way.” Carol washed down the
last bite of her pierogi with a gulp of beer. “We should’ve ordered
more than one––lots more.” She finished off her beer. “Look, here’s
the thing; as rich as Elliott is, there’s no reason for him to look
ugly. Hasn’t he ever heard of a dermatologist? And why can’t he get
some exercise? It’s not like he has to work to support himself. He
just sloths around.”

“What about people who are born with weird
shit, like huge noses, or major Adam’s apples?” I asked.

“There are plenty of very attractive people
around who do not have perfect features, but they make themselves
look good anyway.”

“Are you okay with Ron? He’s not ugly.”

“Your right. He’s not ugly, but terribly
phony.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“He pretends to be just like the rich guys,
but I know the Compton neighborhood in LA he grew up in and believe
me, he had to have been dirt poor.” She stood up. “Let’s see if we
can’t get out of here without having to talk to the creeps.”

26

Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

Steven looked up from his book, saw his
father enter the room. “Dad, she’s been mumbling stuff again.”

“About Carol?” Jeff ran his hand across his
daughter’s cheek before he sat in a chair on the opposite side of
her bed.

“Some, but mostly about Ted again.”

“Who?” Jeff asked.

“No clue. Not anyone I know. How’s your
investigator doing?”

Jeff shook his head. He looked like shit,
even worse than Steven thought possible.

“What about this Ted? Didn’t you know
someone with that name? Have you seen him lately?”

Jeff shook his head again. “He was just a
guy my friend Lexi dated.”

“Did he know Mom?”

Jeff shrugged. “They might’ve met.” He
thought about it for a moment. “No, Lexi broke up with him before I
met your mother.”

“I think you should get your PI to find
him.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, it’s something. Al has
clearly said the name Ted more than once,” Steven said. “Please do
it. Or should I ask grandfather to talk to his PIs about this Ted
guy? What was his last name?”

“Steven, there’s no way that that Ted could
have anything to do with any of this. But I have no problem with
you giving your grandfather any ideas you might have. God knows
nothing else seems to be working. Tom’s investigators haven’t been
much use, so I asked for help from investigators in my office. And
Detective Schmidt has been following up on anything and everything
any of us have suggested. He’s a good cop,” Jeff said, forcing a
weak smile. “He’ll find your mother, I’m sure he will.”

Steven tried not to notice that his father
sucked at being reassuring. Thirty-two hours. His mother had been
missing for thirty-two hours.

27

Berkeley, May 1969

Finally, I’d finished my paper, and turned
in the preliminary version of my thesis. I’d studied all I was
going to until time for exams.

Now it was time for my real love––in the
studio, painting. I cranked up the music, shutting out the sounds
of the city and my housemates. I was lost in the flow of the paint
off my brush, the battle to get just the right shade of blue.

A tap on my shoulder made me jump. I hadn’t
even noticed the door open.

“Lexi, can we talk for a few?” Carol faked a
smile as though she hoped I would allow the interruption without
anger. She turned down my stereo.

I sighed and placed the tube of blue acrylic
next to the black one. “Of course. What’s up?”

“Something’s bothering me.” She sat in the
wreck of a wicker chair in the sunny corner of the light filled
greenhouse I called a studio. “You could paint while we talk.”

“Just tell me.” I swirled a brush in a jar,
cleaned it on a rag.

“I know you think someone has it out for
me––so I’ve been thinking, there’s really only one thing that
could’ve been on purpose. What worries me is that guy could have
been after you as well as me.” Carol stood up then walked over to
look at my canvas before returning to the chair. “I keep thinking
that the guy who attacked us, well, tried to attack us, after the
concert was somebody we know.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I had trouble
getting him out of my mind too.

“You do?”

“Yeah, because he didn’t say anything, like
he was afraid we’d recognize his voice.”

Carol jumped forward in the chair. “Exactly.
Got any ideas?”

I shook my head.

“It could’ve been one of Jeff’s short
friends. The guy was short, but in the dark, hard to tell if he was
pudgy.”

“You think it was Elliott, or Dave?” I
failed to keep the surprise from my voice. “Really?”

“Do you know anybody else that short?”

“Good point.” I twirled the palette knife
through the black swirls in the blue paint. “But why in the world
would either one do such a thing?”

“For kicks. The thrill,” Carol said.

“You think one of them is crazy?”

“Maybe he hates us.” Carol pulled her knees
up to her chest and rested her feet on the front edge of the
chair.

“Why?”

“Because we’re beautiful and he’s ugly?” She
hugged her knees.

“You think it was Elliott?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a crazy idea.”
Carol jumped from the chair. She strode to the window behind me
“Did you hear someone out there? Can people hear us in here?”

“Probably. I can hear when people talk out
there.”

She moved close to me and whispered. “My
point is, it could just as easy be you that someone has it in for.
Think about that.”

I turned to look at her. She raised an
eyebrow at me before she walked out of the greenhouse.

I didn’t want to think about Carol’s theory.
As soon as she left, I turned the music back up and painted through
the night. The sunrise glow greeting the new day behind the
Berkeley Hills surprised me.

I’d finally gotten the blue the shade I’d
had in my mind’s eye. Even the yellow looked pretty close to right.
So seldom was I able to capture the colors, get the light and
shadow just the way I had imagined it. It was a thrill, a
tremendous sense of satisfaction when I was able to get a painting
to look right. I hoped I would feel the same way after some
sleep.

Carol pushed the door open with her foot, a
steaming mug in each of her hands. She handed me one.

The steam off the tea smelled wonderful
“Thanks,” I said.

“You been out here all night?” Carol
asked.

“Yeah.” I stood back to admire my work,
suppressing my smile of satisfaction.

“Wow.” Carol whistled.

I blushed, sipped the hot tea.

“That is so-o fuck-ing beautiful. The
colors, I love it.” Carol grinned. “You are damn good, aren’t
you?”

I sank into the creaky, wicker chair. The
tea soothed the rough edges, mellowed the bite of exhaustion that
hit once I’d gotten the color right.

“Even though it’s abstract,” Carol said,
“looking at it makes me feel like I could walk right in between
giant redwoods and smell the fresh scent of a forest.” She stared
while she drank her morning cuppa before she spoke again. “Lexi, I
didn’t sleep much myself.”

I looked at her with surprise. “I thought
you’d finished your thesis.”

“Yeah, I did,” she hesitated. “It was our
conversation, what we talked about last night. Here’s what’s
bothering me. In Big Sur, Elliott
and
Dave were both with me
coming down that cliff.”

“I thought you just, tripped,” I said.

“Yeah, I did.”

“So?”

“I don’t know how I tripped. What I mean is
. . . someone could’ve tripped me.”

28

Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

“Dad, why don’t we have a policeman, or any
security here?” Steven said. “Don’t they usually post someone
outside the door?”

“There is a man out there." Jeff looked at
his son. “Haven’t you noticed him?”

“It seems pretty obvious, she’s in danger as
soon as whoever shot her learns that she’s still alive. They sure
didn’t give up after the first time they shot at her. And the last
couple times I went out to get food, the guy wasn’t there.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jeff said.

“Dad, could this possibly have to do with
the case you are trying?”

Jeff shook his head. “I did consider the
possibility but I don’t see how.”

“Has anyone threatened you?”

Jeff continued to shake his head. “No. No
threats, no demands.”

“Al had a letter––"

Jeff interrupted, “That letter had nothing
whatsoever to do with this. Did either of you happen to look at the
date? It was years old, just happened to be on my desk as I’d been
cleaning out file drawers. Your sister must’ve scooped it up along
with the Zodiac file.”

“What is the case?” Steven asked.

“What?” Jeff looked at his daughter, his
attention on her. He picked up her hand, rubbed her fingers.

“The case you’re trying? What is it?” Steven
asked again.

“It’s a homicide. No possibility of a
connection. A man killed his wife. Pretty straight forward except
he’s well enough off to hire the best defense. That’s always a
challenge to the prosecution, but no possible connection to our
problem.”

“I don’t believe you. This has to be
connected to you Dad. Maybe the defendant hopes to distract
you.”

“That has definitely been accomplished, but
doesn’t this seem extreme?” Jeff shook his head. “No, I don’t think
so.”

“What else would it be?”

29

Berkeley, May 1969

Crisp, fresh, pine scented air; a view,
bracketed by evergreens, of the Golden Gate Bridge across the bay;
clear, deep blue skies; and the anticipation of hot coffee; these
all put a bounce in my step as I strode down the hill to Euclid on
the way to campus and my first class of the day.

I turned onto the concrete, art moderne
Leroy Steps, a mid-block detour that provided more of an aesthetic
inspiration than a short cut. Having reached the bottom of the
steps, I didn’t bother with the sidewalk but strode down the center
of the empty, half block long dead end street.

The roar of an engine behind me gave the few
seconds of warning I needed to jump clear of a car exiting the dead
front lawn of a frat house.

My heart jumped as dramatically as my body.
I yelled, “Hey, watch it!” after the disappearing car flew by me.
The style of that '53 Chevy, the same model as Tom’s brother’s car,
niggled some thought, some recollection that my caffeine deprived
brain couldn’t catch.

I hurried down the sloping street to coffee
on Euclid.

I sipped steaming hot coffee from a paper
cup, until I noticed the time on the wall of the coffee shop, and
then hurried onto campus.

In my seat in the auditorium, I enjoyed the
coffee while waiting for the laggard prof. I tried to grasp the
elusive concept triggered by seeing that ’53 Chevy. I decided to
let it go until it came to me.

When the thought returned, while I was
scribbling lecture notes, I wrote it down. “Chevy, not that old,
why lost brakes?” The idea that maybe someone had tampered with the
brakes had me shaking my head in denial. Couldn’t be. Why would
anyone want to hurt Carol and me?

I thought about all the strange, dangerous
things that had happened to Carol in the last year and a half.

Falling down the cliff in Big Sur––did
someone trip her?

The knife-wielding attacker in the park.
What would’ve happened if we hadn’t fought him off?

The gas explosion in Carol’s house. Was it
an accident that the oven was left on? Or did someone turn it on
without lighting it, knowing what would happen? The firemen
explained to Carol later that flipping a switch to turn on a light
could’ve sparked the gas explosion.

Then there was the nearly lethal food
poisoning. Had someone purposely added a toxic substance to her
food? No one else in the household was sick with nausea and
diarrhea.

When Carol recovered, after a few days in
the hospital, I quizzed her as to what she’d eaten that day. Salad,
yogurt, canned soup, tea, noodles––nothing suspicious like mayo or
beans or old meat. We’d thrown out all the food in the fridge as a
precaution.

I never imagined at the time that someone
could possibly have slipped something into her food. Lots of people
had access to the kitchen and the fridge. Certainly not Jeff, or
Jamie, Dave, Tom, Elliott . . . the usual guys, but what about
somebody they’d invited into the house.

They were all so casual about bringing
strangers into our house, people they met at bars, at a football
game, “Hey, yeah no problem, use the bathroom here.” Like it was
their house.

Losing the brakes on the car. What if that
had occurred at a worse spot on the road? Like on the winding,
cliff roads closer to the beach?

I’d known Carol since nursery school. She’d
never been a magnet for trouble. In fact, quite the opposite . . .
until recently.

My heart fluttered with a sudden panic. I
had to find Carol. She
was
in danger.

I climbed over the row of legs hindering my
exit of the auditorium, and dug a dime out of my jeans pocket.
There was a pay phone in the vestibule. I called the house. No one
picked up. I tried to remember what class she had this morning.